pairing - john carter x reader
summary - After a rough day, Carter doesn't want anyone to know he's affected. Still, he lets you take care of him.
a/n - This is my first time posting any fanfic. I'm shakin' in my boots. Just a quick thing I thought up anyway, but it's good enough, I thought I'd share.
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It had been a long day. Longer than most. Everyone had been flying around like they were on autopilot, but it was coming to the end of the night, and everyone was finally able to sit in one place for more than a moment. A little girl had come in an hour ago, beaten so badly it was hard to tell the color of her hair through the blood. She died on the table, her father standing, shaking in the corner with bloodied knuckles. After that, no one had much to say, and now that no one had much to do either, the adrenaline of the ER wearing off, the mood was dismal.
You walk into the lounge, hoping to find the one face that might be able to soothe the thumping sound in your ears from your heartbeat, but he is nowhere to be found. You look in the suture room, the front desk, a couple of exam rooms, but nothing. Finally, you check the reading room. The lights are off, and it's hard to see around all the equipment, so you call out, “John?” Nothing. You try again, “John?” a little louder this time. It echoes in the quiet room. There’s no response, but you hear a choked breath from the corner. You rush to find it.
There he is on the floor, back against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees, shaking and holding back sobs. Your heart sinks. A big part of you wants to sit down next to him and cry out the horridness of the day with him, but you think better of it.
“John,” you breathe out, as gently as possible. He doesn’t look up. He’s shaking so badly he can barely clasp his hands together, and his breathing is so shallow you worry if this continues, he could pass out. You sit on your shins in front of him, close enough that he wouldn’t have to move his head to look at you, just peek through his lashes. But you know him too well for that.
You slip your hands through the gap of his arms and find his tie, loosening it enough to unbutton the first two buttons of his dress shirt. He gasps a bit, first in surprise at seeing your hands suddenly in front of his face, then again, feeling less pressure around his neck, to get bigger breaths into his lungs. You slip your hands away, resting them on his forearms and taking loud, deep breaths yourself in hopes that he’ll match your rhythm. You think it’s best not to say anything; he shouldn’t feel like he has to respond in this moment. You’ve had plenty of panic attacks yourself to know that any pressure to hurry it up and get over it has the opposite effect.
His breathing gets slower, deeper, more steady, and you see his eyes blink roughly a couple of times, letting the last of his tears fall off his eyelashes. Finally, he lets his head fall back against the wall and releases an open-mouth sigh, letting his chest cave in. When he doesn’t open his eyes right away, you brush a bit of his hair that has fallen over his face out of the way. His red, puffy eyes open to look at you, and you sigh in relief. “Hey,” you smile, barely.
He gulps, “Hi.” He detaches his arms from his legs and lets you slide in between them.
“You’re okay,” you say, sliding your hands from his forearms, up his biceps, then shoulders, finally landing at the base of his neck gently. He shakes his head. You can’t tell if he’s disagreeing or just shaking any remaining noise out of his head, but you take his cheek in your palm to stop him anyway.
You push another strand of hair away from his face, but it falls right back down. You tut, trying to push it back again, and again it falls back over his eyes. He watches you do this a couple of times before you give up, rolling your eyes a bit. Instead, you gently wipe away the wetness from his cheeks, and he scrunches his eyes shut like it stings.
“I’m sorry,” he says, closing his eyes tight, clearly embarrassed.
“You’re sorry?” You huff out an almost laugh. “John, don’t be silly. Don’t be sorry.” You let both hands cradle his face. You wait for him to look you in the eye and say it again, “don’t be sorry,” making sure he knows you mean it. “When’s your shift over?”
“A while ago,” he looks down again, like he wishes he’d left when he could. You make one more attempt at moving the hair out of his face.
“Let’s get out of here, okay?” you say, “I need out of here.” He lets you pull him up with you, but as you turn to go, you see him fidget with himself, not moving. “What’s wrong?”
“Do I look,” he starts, then pauses and thinks about how he can say something without sounding silly, “Do I look okay? I mean, like I’m okay?”
You look at him for a moment, tilting your head to the side, then reach to turn on the overhead lights. He winces at the fluorescent. You take him in, his puffy eyes, and red nose, and loose collar. He looks handsome, as always, but you know what he means, and yes, he definitely looks like he’s been crying.
“Come ‘ere.” You pull him a bit towards you and wipe his cheeks free of stains as best you can. Then you carefully wipe at his lashes until they’re dry. Then you mess up his tie and collar a bit more and run your fingers through his hair a couple of times until it looks messy and tugged at. He can’t help but hum and close his eyes at the feeling. Lastly, you rub your lips together, making sure your lipstick coats them fully, and press a firm kiss to his jaw. “There,” you say, “now you look more than okay. If they notice anything, it’ll be that you’re getting some.” You laugh, and he smiles widely. You’re thankful you could make him smile. “You ready?”
He nods, and you hold his hand all the way out of the hospital, to his car, and all the way home.
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